


North Star

by witchpointe



Series: North Star [1]
Category: VIXX
Genre: F/M, M/M, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23872942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchpointe/pseuds/witchpointe
Summary: There's a heavy, familiar weight in Sanghyuk's gut as he takes himself in. Something looming and dark yet altogether shapeless, like the monster in a child's closet. It threatens to send bile up into his mouth, but he swallows it down, down, always swallows it down.He follows the sharp angles of his face, the wide jut of his jaw that gives him away as male. His shoulders are hunched but they're still too wide. Too big. There's just too much of him. Always the tallest person in the room.
Relationships: Cha Hakyeon | N/Han Sanghyuk | Hyuk
Series: North Star [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924045
Comments: 13
Kudos: 35





	North Star

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that depicts Sanghyuk going through the process of realizing he is transgender. I didn't want this to be another sad story about trans existence, but I did want to write about the process of personal acceptance. There is no transphobia or violence, except for a bit of internalized transphobia Sanghyuk might experience early on.
> 
> Chasang is tagged as they are an established relationship, but this isn't a ship-centric fic.

Sanghyuk sits before the dressing room mirror, staring at his reflection. Hakyeon stands behind him, idly running his fingers through Sanghyuk's hair, speaking softly to Taekwoon about something too mundane to keep up with.

There's a heavy, familiar weight in Sanghyuk's gut as he takes himself in. Something looming and dark yet altogether shapeless, like the monster in a child's closet. It threatens to send bile up into his mouth, but he swallows it down, down, always swallows it down.

He follows the sharp angles of his face, the wide jut of his jaw that gives him away as male. His shoulders are hunched but they're still too wide. Too big. There's just too much of him. Always the tallest person in the room.

He wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to feel small. He tries to remember what it was like, when he still had to look up at his hyungs, when Hakyeon could still crush him into an all-encompassing hug--but that's not it. That isn't it at all. He doesn't want to be shorter.

He wants to be-- he wants to feel-- what? 

He closes his eyes, heaves a deep, steadying breath. His juice box finished, he lowers it to his lap, tired of thinking, tired of feeling.

Hakyeon's hands slide gently from his hair to cup the sides of his neck, and suddenly Sanghyuk is thinking of Hakyeon's bed, pristine white sheets bunched underneath the delicate curve of his own back. Above him, Hakyeon leans down to kiss his neck, pressing their bodies together, and Hakyeon dominates his body in every way: longer, wider, stronger. His hand follows Sanghyuk's body, past a narrow waist and up the unmistakable swell of womanly hips, and when Hakyeon moves his hand to part his thighs--

Sanghyuk jerks up from his chair, away from Hakyeon's touch, juice box clattering across the tiled floor. The soft chattering dies away as everyone looks up at him. Hakyeon still has his hands frozen mid-air where he had been touching Sanghyuk.

"Hyuk-ah?" Taekwoon asks, worry creasing his brow. 

"I have to pee," he says loudly, crossing the room in four easy strides and locking himself away in the bathroom.

  
  
  


⚥

  
  


It's five days before he feels it again, creeping up on him in the silence between thoughts as a stylist bends over his chair to carefully apply his eyeliner. He stares down at the floor, at her feet. Cute little things, wrapped in the thin pink straps of her platform sandals. Her toenails are perfectly painted a dark, vampy red and she sports a thin gold band on her second toe.

Sanghyuk feels a hollow darkness in his chest; an emotion that feels remarkably like envy. It claws against his insides like a wild thing tearing its way out. Fisting his hands, he clenches and unclenches them. The feeling only grows stronger as she switches sides and her long golden necklace swings between her breasts.

Hakyeon seems to notice how hard Sanghyuk is hitting the choreography that night, how aggressive and clipped his movements. Sanghyuk ignores the raised eyebrows and pointed looks, knowing he'll have to pay for his dismissal now with an even more in-depth conversation later. The thought of trying to _explain_ any of this pisses him off even more, so he opts for the silent treatment until the group has filtered back into the dorm, after which he announces loudly that he's going out and slams the door.

Much later that night, when the dorm is dark and quiet, he moves around the kitchen making tea. He stands against the counter watching the leaves bleed orange into the water, blinking back his tears in the wake of the steam. The past couple hours and the evidence of them--the plastic bag currently hidden under his bed--weigh heavy on his mind; he doesn't want this, he doesn't want any of it.

He sits at the dining table with both his hands around the mug, looking out the window. The display of blue darkness and golden lights blurs as he stares. He sits like this long enough for the tea to run cold without him having taken a sip. He leaves it on the table, knowing he'll probably get scolded for it in the morning, walking down the hall and standing in the doorway to his room.

He listens. Nothing but the rhythmic growl of Wonshik's snoring. Retrieving the bag from under his bed, he closes himself in the bathroom and turns to sit against it, ass on the cold tile and long, angular feet touching the fluffy purple rug set before the sink. He wiggles his toes and frowns, looking at the tuft of hair on his big toes.

Before he can think twice, he lunges forward and opens the cabinets under the sink. Rifling through the over-stuffed contents, he finds a box of disposable razors and closes the doors, sitting back again. Carefully, holding his toe still, he shaves the hair off dry, wincing at the feeling, then repeats on the other side.

Happy with his bare toes, he leaves the razor for now and digs into the plastic bag. He takes out a pastel purple shoe box which he places reverently on the ground between his feet, then a small bottle of sapphire blue nail polish which he places on top of the box, and finally a thin silver ankle chain.

Slowly, with his toes propped up against the shoebox, he swipes the nail polish brush across his toenails, his hand unsteady and unsure. The lines are shaky against the sides and he growls many times as he has to wipe excess from his skin.

Once he's done, he splays his toes out to survey his work. It's not as good as _hers_ , but they're his feet and they're painted and they look _nice_ , not unlike something he might see from someone tanning themselves on a beach. He smiles.

While he waits for the paint to dry, he pulls the box open and looks at the shoes lying inside. They're simple mules, a thin white strap near the toes and a thicker one across the top of the foot, with a two inch heel. They weren't his first choice--a pair of pretty, strappy little things with buckles was--but they were what was in stock in his size. The woman that helped him had been so kind, simply smiling as she measured his feet and retrieved the pair of shoes from the stock room. He paid quickly and left, worried that someone would recognize him, that one of his band mates had followed him.

_Why?_ they would ask him, faces disgusted. _What does it mean?_ His front teeth pull skin from his lips now as he takes the shoes from the box and holds them. The paint on his feet is still wet, and hearing the echoes of voices in his head, he pulls out his phone and types 'crossdressing' into the search bar, feeling uneasy as the results load.

The Wikipedia page is rather boring, and an Instagram hashtag only makes him feel sick to his stomach. There's a how-to guide (Sanghyuk thinks it really doesn't seem that hard), and some strange things about "male feminization." Article after article reads about men leading double lives, keeping secrets from their friends and family and colleagues, just to come home and dress like extravagant women, often to have sex with their wives. Sanghyuk shakes his head. He doesn't think this is a sex thing, it doesn't turn him on, and he _certainly_ doesn't want Hakyeon to know about it. 

Sanghyuk sets his phone down and slips the shoes onto his feet. They fit perfectly. He rolls his feet from side to side. He thinks they look more slender this way, softer, done up in delicate white leather. _Slender. Soft. Delicate._ Those words applying to him makes him feel velvety all over, cozy like sleep. He just smiles down at his feet as the minutes tick by, lost in his own little world. It takes him a few tries to clasp the anklet around his ankle, as dainty as it is, but once it's done it completes the look entirely.

He never wants to take any of this off.

Luckily, he tells himself, he can hide the nail polish and anklet under clothes. 

  
  
  


⚥

  
  


It's only two days until Hakyeon finds out. Sanghyuk had been stupid, so careless, falling asleep on the couch in his bare feet and pajama pants. He had meant to get up and go to his room, but the couch was so comfortable, and he was so tired…

He wakes up to the early-morning cold and his feet in Hakyeon's lap, as Hakyeon rubs at his ankles with his thumbs. It's warm and inviting, and Sanghyuk smiles and closes his eyes again, enjoying the intimacy. It isn't until he feels the slip of the silver anklet between Hakyeon's fingers and his own skin that he panics and shoots up, jerking his legs away from Hakyeon and underneath him.

"I like the polish," Hakyeon says quietly and kindly, as if hesitant to break the morning calm. "But gold jewelry fits you better."

"It's not what you think," Sanghyuk says, tongue working slowly in his parched mouth.

Hakyeon lowers his eyebrows and moves his head to the side. "What is it that I think?"

"Clothes--things--they don't have a gender. You're always saying that." Sanghyuk leans closer and takes both of Hakyeon's hands in his own. He looks into his eyes, pleading for him to relay all the answers to questions unasked. "Aren't you?" 

"They don't." Hakyeon runs his thumb across the back of Sanghyuk's hand. "Unless you need them to."

Sanghyuk hates Hakyeon because he knows. And he loses it right in the middle of the dorm living room at five-thirty in the morning, crawling into Hakyeon's lap as best he can and releasing soul-wracking sobs into his chest. His fingers clutch at Hakyeon's soft cotton shirt and pull at him through his hysteria, an attempt at what he isn't sure.

When he's too tired to continue, his body limp and heavy from sobbing, he stays curled into Hakyeon, silent aside from the occasional sniffle. Hakyeon lays his chin on top of Sanghyuk's hair with his eyes closed. He hums a song that Sanghyuk likes, a folk song that proclaims nothing matters more than love.

"Tell me," Hakyeon says eventually, after the sun has risen and cast its light through the windows in long golden slats across the opposite wall.

Chewing his lip, he looks up at Hakyeon feeling deja vu. He remembers being in the dorm early one morning as rookies, sitting next to Hakyeon and holding his hand. Everything in his world had been drastically new and scary at that moment in time; he had been unable to see the forest for the trees. He wanted to run away, to return home to his mother's cooking, to his familiar bed and vetted friends. The full reality of his new life: the schedules, the social confinement, the travel, the physical and mental intensity, the endless string of strangers ordering him around - it had all become too much for him on that particular morning.

But Hakyeon had understood, he had known exactly what Sanghyuk was going through. He had listened instead of talking, letting his maknae cry it all out in a safe space before explaining that he, too, was scared. He, too, missed his home and his family and felt too small for this big stage. But they were living their dream, he said, squeezing Sanghyuk's hand, and they owed it to themselves to hang on as tight as they could. Most important, he had promised to keep Sanghyuk safe.

There had been nothing to protect Sanghyuk from, not really, but the sentiment had meant everything to him in a world where he no longer had the security of his parents and his older sister.

Sanghyuk stares at him now, feeling just as small and broken as he had as an awkward teenager. He wants Hakyeon to do it again, to stop him from drowning, to make sense of the shattered and unrecognizable pieces of himself that he holds precariously in the palms of his hands. But he knows better--Hakyeon is not going through the same crisis as he is this time, Hakyeon will not inherently understand the demons crawling through his mind, as sympathetic as he might be. 

And yet worst of all is the panic swirling in Sanghyuk's chest at the possibility of an insensitive Hakyeon, the reality that this might be too big, too much, too strange, too _dirty_ ; that Sanghyuk's traitorous mind and body had landed on the one thing Hakyeon's love could never accept.

"I…" Sanghyuk trails off. Where does he begin, what words does he use? How does he explain something that he doesn't even understand? He sniffs heavily and swallows. "You remember… when I went out the other night?"

"When you were upset," Hakyeon nods.

"I bought shoes. Women's shoes. I specifically went out to buy women's shoes for myself to wear."

He hates admitting it out loud, hates feeling like he's done something deeply, irrevocably wrong when in the moment it had felt _so right_.

When he doesn't continue and it's apparent that he's waiting for Hakyeon's reaction, Hakyeon adjusts himself to sit farther upright, keeping hold of Sanghyuk's legs.

"Do you want to show them to me?"

This throws Sanghyuk; he had been so focused on the gender of the shoes, bracing himself to answer _why_ , why _women's_ shoes, what does a _man_ want with _women's_ shoes--

"You want to see them?"

Hakyeon rubs at Sanghyuk's thigh. "If you'd like to show me, yes."

Sanghyuk stands up, bare feet against the hardwood flooring. He looks at his painted toes for just a moment, then retrieves the box from underneath his bed, walking even slower back to the living room where Hakyeon waits for him. He sits back down beside him, holding the box in his lap, looking down at it and frowning.

With a deep breath he flips the top over and under the box. The white shoes sit inside, evidence of his issues and his shame. Hakyeon reaches over and lifts one, turning it right and left. Sanghyuk trembles.

"They're pretty," Hakyeon says, placing it back into the box and taking it from him, balancing it on the arm of the sofa. Then he pulls Sanghyuk's feet back into his lap. "You know I've always liked you in white."

Sanghyuk watches, breathless and helpless, as Hakyeon rolls up the legs of his pajamas to mid-shin. Delicately he holds Sanghyuk's ankles and slips on the sandals.

Hakyeon smiles like a devil, a look reserved for fan service and rare times when he plans on taunting Sanghyuk as if their ages were reversed. "Well, what do you know princess, they fit."

_Princess_ . Joy settles in his stomach, simmering hotly and shifting to a hint of arousal. But it's short-lived; guilt and mortification shudder through him as he realizes Hakyeon hadn't meant it like that, he couldn't have, and since when does this _turn him on_ \--

Hakyeon's face falls. "I'm sorry, I was just thinking--you know, Cinderella, and--no, I wasn't thinking, I'm sorry--"

It's rare to hear Hakyeon blabber like this, rare for him to feel as if he's made a social faux pas. The thing is, Sanghyuk doesn't think he has.

"Say it again," Sanghyuk urges softly.

It takes a moment, but Hakyeon grasps Sanghyuk's cheeks and pulls him down slightly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He leaves his hands where they are, thumbs rubbing lightly across the swell of Sanghyuk's cheekbones.

"Princess," Hakyeon says tenderly, observing the reaction deep in Sanghyuk's eyes. "What prompted this purchase?"

Sanghyuk tries to lick his lips but the inside of his mouth is a desert. He looks sideways at the blank television screen, as far away as he can look while his face is still in Hakyeon's grasp. There's a thin layer of dust that's settled over the appliance since they've been so busy, and he has the urge to get up and clean, perhaps pour some cereal, anything to evade the question.

"I don't know," Sanghyuk says, pouting, knowing it's both the truth and not quite.

"You don't have to tell me," Hakyeon says carefully, "but don't lie to me."

Looking down at his fingers clutched in his pants, fidgeting uselessly, he's never felt laid this bare, painted toes and heels on display as he grapples with the vague half-formed suspicions and shameful emotions churning around in his mind.

"I saw the makeup artist's feet the other day. They were pretty." Sanghyuk swallows thickly. "I wanted to be pretty."

"A different kind of pretty," Hakyeon guesses, "than you are normally."

And that, Sanghyuk thinks, could mean anything at all, but it hits a particularly soft bruise on his heart. His eyes water and he bites the skin of his cheek. The kind of pretty he is normally--the kind of attractive others perceive him as and compliment him for--tall, broad, handsome, strong, _manly_ \--

His stomach rolls and he feels like he might vomit. He pulls on Hakyeon's elbows, removing the hands from his face.

"I see women's bodies," Sanghyuk whispers, forcing the words from his mouth, choking on this awful revelation that he hasn't let himself form into a coherent thought until now. "I keep noticing them in a different way."

"What way, Sanghyuk?"

Hakyeon's words sound fairly demanding, but they're softened by the poignant way he says Sanghyuk's name, as if his worth makes this matter all the more urgent.

"Like--jealousy."

Sanghyuk's chest hurts. He hasn't _said the words_ but he's said enough and Hakyeon is nothing if not socially and emotionally intelligent. He can't take this back. He can't laugh this away, play it off as a practical joke. Oh, _god_ , now Hakyeon _knows_. He's said it out loud and it's real, it's so abruptly real in his own consciousness, and he can't uncurl his legs from Hakyeon's lap fast enough, can't stand up and turn around so he doesn't have to see the revulsion on Hakyeon's face--

So he crawls backwards as Hakyeon grasps for him, ankles slipping through Hakyeon's fingers. His back hits the other arm of the couch and he curls into himself, hugging his legs to his chest and hiding his face. He refuses to sob, grinds his teeth together to silence any noise at all, and he shakes violently with the effort.

Sanghyuk hears nothing but the sound of the heater between the sharp inhales through his nose. He wants to believe Hakyeon left him to suffer alone, to bear the shame of this discovery without an audience, but he can feel the weight of Hakyeon's presence like sour milk in his stomach.

Hakyeon says his name. He sounds pained, the root of which is too ambiguous in Sanghyuk's mind for comfort. He continues to shake, buries his face farther between his knees. If only he could disappear, stop existing entirely in this unpleasant, massive body.

"Sanghyuk, I love you. Please look at me."

The request is so angelic, a tone of voice usually so difficult to ignore, but Sanghyuk can't bear the thought of further vulnerability. He moans a miserable rejection, his hands sliding up and grabbing into his hair.

"I hate this," Sanghyuk says against his legs, voice breaking. "I don't want to feel this way. I want to be normal."

"Nothing you're feeling is abnormal," Hakyeon says.

He's going to say something else, takes a deep breath to prepare for it, but Sanghyuk lifts his head to glare at him, suddenly roasting with anger he doesn't quite understand.

"Not abnormal? Are you even listening to me?"

"I'm hearing you. More importantly, I think, I'm understanding you." 

Hakyeon doesn't look angry, but he looks obstinate, which dissipates Sanghyuk's anger to sadness. Maybe Hakyeon _doesn't_ know. Because if he did, how could he be this calm, this unaffected.

Sanghyuk shakes his head. "I don't think you understand at all."

"Then tell me. Stop talking around it and just say it."

Lying his cheek onto his knee, Sanghyuk exhales. He feels wrecked, completely spent, like they've just performed hours without a break. He doesn't want to think anymore.

"I wish I were a woman." 

  
  
  


⚥

  
  


Admitting the depth of his crisis--confessing that it's more than skin deep, something buried deep within his spirit that has been looming for a long time--is like opening floodgates. The thoughts swarm harder, drowning him at times, to the point where he goes non-verbal and simply lies in bed, squishing his eyes shut and imagining an alternate reality where he is soft and curvy.

Everyone notices. They're all worried, particularly Wonshik, who hovers more than he should, offering everything from gopchang to back rubs. Hakyeon graciously keeps Sanghyuk's secret, simply shaking his head when Hongbin presses him, saying that Sanghyuk will share when he's ready. Sanghyuk's chest feels heavy at the thought.

He procures reading material, and he learns phrases that have always been on the peripheral of his existence explain the troubles he's feeling: gender expression, gender identity, gender dysphoria. He reads the stories of men and women who, like him, discovered that gender is not a birthright; it's a spectrum of individual feeling and definition. He learns that there have always been people like him, and there is a community--however hidden and unknown--of like-minded individuals that can understand.

She takes to referring to herself as she and her in her head, and it relaxes something tight and gnarled in her soul.

She's not sure why she goes to Taekwoon first. It isn't that she trusts him more than the others; it's maybe that he's so liberal with his affection. As much as she dislikes it sometimes, she doesn't want it to change.

He's reading a magazine and looks up immediately when she enters. 

She chokes on the word 'hyung.' Taekwoon frowns and asks her what's wrong. She ends up curled into his side, stubbornly refusing to voice the words she needs him to hear. Typically he's less patient with silence than Hakyeon, pushing for answers, nervous with the unknown. Perhaps he can feel the gravity of her heart, but he stays silent, rubbing his hand up and down her back.

When she says it--slow, unsure, curled around her tears--a silence lingers between them, terrifying and powerful. She's swarmed with regret, panicked with the need to run away, but too scared to move from where he holds her to his side.

Then he curls down to kiss her forehead.

"I don't know what to say," Taekwoon admits softly.

She sniffs. "Do you hate me?" A pause. "Do you think I'm gross?"

He says her name, the only name he knows, a name that she is slowly feeling removed from. "I feel no different about you than yesterday. I love you."

Wonshik is next, because she can't stand his kicked puppy face any longer. He listens while holding her hands in his own and nodding every now and then. His features are wonderful in their honesty, and when she begins to cry he frets, fussing about in his awkward and endearing way. He is far more curious than Taekwoon, cautiously asking what he needs to change, how he can help.

She leaves him feeling a hundred pounds lighter. He was so understanding, spoke so practically, that the magnificence of the situation begins to fall from her shoulders; perhaps this metamorphosis isn't the end of the world after all.

In the kitchen late one afternoon she and Jaehwan are gossiping and picking at sweets that are supposed to be off limits when he refers to her in the masculine; her face falls and she goes quiet, feeling the chocolate go sour in her mouth.

She says it so simply this time, not feeling the need to preface it with insecure rambling anymore: I'm a woman. I'm transgender. I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. It's okay if you don't feel comfortable with it. Jaehwan looks confused for a moment, then breaks out into a lopsided grin, hauling her close with an arm around her shoulders. 

He kisses her cheek sloppily, in the way he knows annoys her. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

She rubs her cheek trying to feign a look of disgust, but her smile shows through.

She leaves Hongbin for last, and it's no coincidence. She's paralyzed with indecision. Hongbin has never really felt like one of the 'hyungs,' he's always been more on her level, in some cases feeling younger than she. She's afraid he won't understand, will refuse to understand. He's always been the most taciturn.

The conversation begins slow, Hongbin looking at her impatiently. She picks through her words, careful to soften the sharp edges and keep a straight face. Crying will only make him more uncomfortable.

He looks uneasy, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and refusing to meet her eyes. Swaying from one foot to the other, he chews his lip and asks, "So uhh… what do I call you? You're not Sanghyuk anymore."

That sentiment, so brutally candid, strikes her like a freight train. A thousand baby steps have led to this moment, but if she looks back on the last time _Sanghyuk_ felt right, she can only admit that she has indeed changed for good.

She shrugs. "I haven't really thought about that."

"Of course you haven't," Hongbin says, rolling his eyes. "You're always overlooking the little things."

Together they go through names, Hongbin scrolling through websites on his noisy mouse. She makes faces at all the names he suggests, telling him he shouldn't name his future children, after which he throws an empty cup at her. She laughs, watching the cup roll off her leg and across the floor. It's all so blessedly typical.

They decide on _Jiwoo_ , after she says it a few times and lets the feeling of it sink in. It just feels _good_ , settling into her skin and making her smile extra-broad when Hongbin says it back to her. He must notice her reaction, because he says it again, and again she tucks her chin into her chest to smile, feeling the warmth spread across her lungs. 

  
  
  


⚥

  
  


Little by little, shame shifts and settles from her like the changing autumn leaves. She can't show it outwardly, not with their schedule and prior commitments. She isn't ready for that anyway. But she feels more at peace than she ever has, even as a child, even before she blindly and mistakenly accepted that gender was a thing biological and immutable. The monster inside her head has been caught and conquered, dragged into the daylight. No longer does she simply endure her gender like a curse; she dons it like the other parts of herself that she loves: her heritage, her sexuality, her artistry and her love.

She gathers her parents and her sister at her family home one long weekend after promotions are over. Even confident in herself she fears their reaction, their betrayal. She doesn't know how they feel about transgender people on a personal or political level, and she isn't sure what would be worse: outright hatred and denial or the thought of her own family playing along while muttering _he_ and _him_ and _how sad, how strange, how pitiful_ behind her back.

She faces them alone, refusing to use Hakyeon as a crutch. They hold informational pamphlets in their hands as she holds her head high and announces, _I am a woman. I always have been, I just wasn't aware of it. I would prefer it if you called me_ **_daughter_ ** _, if you called me_ **_sister_ ** _. If you called me_ **_Jiwoo_ ** _._

She knows how it must sound, how it must look; she knows that she still mostly presents as every bit the cis man they had always assumed she was. But she won't be that way forever. She looks down at her hands as she waits with bated breath--at her fingernails, which she has begun to grow and paint with clear polish. She wonders if they notice.

Her parents are ignorant but kind. They ask questions and listen, and, she thinks, they mostly understand. She thinks maybe, from the looks in their eyes, that her mother gets it more than her father. Mother recalls a time as a child when Jiwoo had gotten into her wardrobe and tried to walk around the house in a pair of her high heels. They all laugh a little awkwardly, perhaps Jiwoo the most, because she knows that had much more to do with her unending curiosity and mother worship than her gender. But her mother is _trying_ , and Jiwoo is so grateful.

Her sister is much quieter. She reads through the pamphlet cautiously and then sets it on the couch beside her. She asks how long Jiwoo has known. She asks what the future looks like: her high-profile career, her relationship, her friends. Leave it to her sister to be the practical one. 

Jiwoo gives her the most honest answers she knows how. She doesn't know what the future looks like, but her friends and boyfriend will always be there for her. 

_So will your family_ , her sister says.

When it's all over, she returns to the guest bedroom where Hakyeon is waiting and falls into his arms, so overcome with happiness and relief that the tears fall on and off for hours.

And Hakyeon--he touches her like he always has, soft and confident, so sure in his unchanged love even as he whispers a new name. Like it makes sense. As if it were inevitable.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

>  _Stand tall, shoulders back, feeling brave  
>  Who am I?  
> There's dirt under my feet  
> A breeze across my cheeks  
> Reprogram, repeat  
> North star guide me home_  
> North Star, IAMX
> 
> I can't thank you enough for reading!


End file.
